I woke up to the smell of rain-soaked pine and coffee. The storm had eased into a steady drizzle that drummed softly against the cabin roof, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur of green and gray. Andrew wasn’t in bed. I stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles and the deeper, sweeter soreness between my legs. My body was covered in faint marks—fingerprints on my hips, a bite on the inside of my thigh, dried cum flaking on my stomach from when he’d pulled out and finished on me in the middle of the night. I found him in the kitchen, shirtless in low-slung sweatpants, pouring two mugs. The sight of him—broad shoulders, the cut of muscle along his back, the way his hair was still messy from my hands—sent a fresh wave of heat through me. He turned when I padded in, wearing nothing but his flannel shirt from yesterday, unbuttoned and slipping off one shoulder. “Morning,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. His eyes dragged down my body slowly, appreciatively. No
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